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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638985">Let's Have Another Look at Your Past Perfect</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingPigPoet/pseuds/FlyingPigPoet'>FlyingPigPoet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Move! I'm Rising Above It! [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gentleman Jack (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M, pandemic entertainment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:20:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,891</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638985</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingPigPoet/pseuds/FlyingPigPoet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Season One, Episode Five</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854), Mariana Lawton/Anne Lister (1791-1840)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Move! I'm Rising Above It! [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1494254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 22 Minutes Past 10:00</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She's a sight for exhausted eyes when I wake up<br/>In my sunny yellow room, but the sun shines<br/>Directly from her in her black jacket and skirt.<br/>"What time is it?" I ask, and without even looking<br/>She says, "Twenty-two minutes past ten." I smile.<br/>Most people would round up or down, but not her.</p><p>She says she hasn't been here long, that over<br/>Breakfast, she and Miss Parkhill had a polite<br/>Skirmish over which one of them would come up<br/>And see if I'd woken. She adds, unnecessarily, <br/>"I won." Then she kisses me and it's like passing<br/>Sunshine from one person to another, her to me.</p><p>But I only got five hours of sleep, tormented<br/>By thoughts of Mr. Ainsworth, how dirty he always<br/>Made me feel, my betrayal of his wife and myself.<br/>I say maybe she shouldn't say anything to him,<br/>Since he'll be angry, embarrassed, humiliated<br/>If he knows I told anyone about what went on.</p><p>"What went on? You were quite right to tell me.<br/>And that makes him embarrassed or humiliated?<br/>Bad luck." As I wash and dress, she tells me <br/>Her plan to sink a coal pit, asks if she might<br/>Borrow some money from me for the purpose<br/>Temporarily. "How much? Of course you can."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Unfeeling, Indecorous</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The key, I finally decided, was to act: to do the thing,<br/>And after, verbally second guess yourself so that others<br/>Would be forced to justify what you did, so that you<br/>Don't feel badly about it. So far it has been working<br/>Remarkably well, first, buying the open carriage,<br/>Even though, in retrospect, it was a very dangerous<br/>Vehicle. And now, drinking tea with the Priestleys,<br/>I dither about whether or not to go see Miss Walker,<br/>And even wonder if meeting with the church trustees,<br/>As planned, despite... the event... might appear to be<br/>Unfeeling, indecorous. This leads them to insist<br/>That life goes on. But Miss Priestley tells me that<br/>Miss Walker has been unwell since news of my wife's<br/>Death. "That might explain why I never heard<br/>Back from her, and also all the more reason for me<br/>To go and offer what comfort I can." Mrs. Priestley<br/>Is very encouraging, pointing out that Miss Parkhill's<br/>Presence would mean there would be no impropriety,<br/>Something I honestly had given no thought to.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Grubby stinking wretch.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. You've Persuaded the Invalid Downstairs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After such an odd little morning with this Miss Lister,<br/>Battling, over tea and toast, over which of us might<br/>Try to rouse Miss Walker, and my longer acquaintance<br/>Losing to her more recent particular knowledge of Ann's<br/>Bereavement, and then my waiting over another cup,<br/>Finally, Miss Lister brought her down, dressed and<br/>Coiffed, and looking remarkably well, so of course<br/>I ordered more tea and handed her the note that<br/>A servant had brought her, watched her read it, glance<br/>At Miss Lister, and take a moment in her sitting room<br/>To pen a quick reply. Then it was back to toast,<br/>Compote and light talk of the woes of French grammar.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Small Steps</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Back when William first told me of this young clergyman<br/>And his wife, who might be coming down to interview<br/>With the church trustees, I don't think it hit me that they<br/>Might be friends of some long standing with Miss Walker.</p><p>I think I only realized that once the poor woman died,<br/>And we all saw what a terrible load that was on the girl;<br/>Her health, which was never robust, suddenly failed her,<br/>Leaving it up to her Aunt Ann and her friends to support</p><p>Her. And Anne Lister. Any time over the last ten years<br/>Or more, I might have seen that as a kindness, but all<br/>Of Miss Lister's motives were now to me suspect. So,<br/>When Ainsworth suggested putting a few things</p><p>Together, the scrapbook and whatnot, and sending<br/>Them over to Crow Nest, William and I agreed:<br/>"Small steps," if only to curtail the young man's tears.<br/>And when he asked if there might be another reason</p><p>For her reticence to see him--"There wouldn't be<br/>Someone else?" I hurried to assure him there wasn't,<br/>Despite William's pained, knowing look. I repeated,<br/>"No one else. No. Quite the opposite." I stand by it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The More in Awe of Our Creator</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I swear I cannot help it. The girl was sketching flowers<br/>And we got talking about the diverse kinds, with different<br/>Numbers of petals, different thicknesses of leaves, and I,<br/>Without much thinking, started to talk about these new<br/>Ideas about evolution that I picked up in London and Paris.<br/>And that led me to talk of Georges Couvier and his<br/>Decision to set aside biblical interpretations of how life <br/>Began and pursues a more scientific understanding.</p><p>I should have realized bringing my city ideas to little<br/>Halifax would require a very careful touch. Ann doesn't<br/>Seem to mind my nontraditional approach, but then,<br/>That could be why she always beats me at backgammon.<br/>She actually pays attention to the game, while I let myself<br/>Get distracted by a pretty face or a chance to show off<br/>My learning. Miss Parkhill thinks scientists are heretics,<br/>Yet most scientific men I've known are quite religious.</p><p>How could they not be? "The more we understand<br/>About what complex and sophisticated beings we are, <br/>The more in awe of our Creator we become, surely."<br/>And just as she asked me why I pursued Couvier and<br/>Whether he thought me extraordinary, the bell rang<br/>And I recalled a reason I had to doubt and curse God.<br/>But in murmurs coming to us from the hall, I thought <br/>I heard James being stiff, protective, sent to defend.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Did You Tell Her It Was Reverend Ainsworth?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I know it's not my place to judge the family's callers,</p><p>But over the years I've worked for her, I have seen</p><p>A pattern, very clear: there are the ones who come</p><p>To enjoy Miss Walker's company in the present, and</p><p>Those who come hoping to enjoy her fortune in future.</p><p>I wasn't sure which one Miss Lister was a while back,</p><p>When she first returned from the Continent and began</p><p>Calling on Miss Lister regularly.</p><p>                                                            Well, one hears</p><p>Things, down the pub now and again. But the new,</p><p>Odd thing about Miss Lister isn't so much what t’ folks</p><p>Say as what has reappeared at Crow Nest after years</p><p>Gone missing: Miss Walker's laugh. I had just begun</p><p>In service a few years before her parents' deaths,</p><p>And I still remember her and her sister laughing.</p><p>The rooms used to ring with it, gloriously. Then,</p><p>There was darkness and mourning and readjustment.</p><p> </p><p>Then, one day, Miss Walker ran down the road</p><p>After "the neighbor lady" and her all in black without</p><p>A funeral, but she came for tea and amused the sisters</p><p>With her conversation and banter and wit, and</p><p>For one brief afternoon, there was laughter again.</p><p>The next day dawned, light dimmed, laughter</p><p>Stilled, mourning stretching on from yesterday,</p><p>Through today, and took a long time before</p><p>They were ready to wear color again.</p><p>                                                            So today,</p><p>When this dark-clad clergyman shows up</p><p>At the door asking to be admitted and not taking</p><p>No like a gentleman, it gets my ire up a bit.</p><p>He says, "Did you tell her it's Reverend Ainsworth?"</p><p> </p><p>I want to say, "Oh, aye, I forgot how to do my job</p><p>For a moment. Let me go fix that!" Instead, I assure</p><p>Him I did, and that she still finds herself too ill</p><p>For more visitors, and firmly push the front door</p><p>Closed behind him, with a most decisive click!</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Might That Not Be a Good Thing?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Honestly, I do not know what to make of Miss Walker's<br/>New friend. She is tall and dominating, like a man, but<br/>When she talks of her studies of anatomy, paleontology,<br/>Geology, she lights up like a woman. She is rather<br/>The perfect combination of the two, if such a thing might<br/>Be said. It's rather like her curious costume, like<br/>An ebony riding habit, as if she was always on her way<br/>To hounds. No wonder Ann prefers her company.</p><p>And yet, still without a husband at twenty-nine,<br/>It's not like she's going to get too many more suitors,<br/>Especially with her poor nerves as they are, or so I<br/>Have often thought. So when the letter and the scrapbook<br/>And the biographical account of the clergyman come,<br/>I said, "Perhaps he plans to propose!" And yes, it is a bit<br/>Early, maybe a trifle indecorous, but he might be the last<br/>Man who will ask her. Might that not be a good thing?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. There Are Some Things...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's been years since anyone touched me like this, not<br/>The "grubbling" we do, because of course that is <br/>Utterly brand new, but the rubbing balm into my back<br/>And shoulders, to heat away the constant ache.</p><p>Her hands are strong and gentle (at both this and that)<br/>And soothe my body, though my mind persists<br/>In its circular worries. I keep thinking of consequences.<br/>I tell her I am glad she did not face off with him</p><p>When he called. She says, "I still intend to, if it becomes<br/>Necessary, if they offer him the position and he has<br/>Not gotten the message, if he has not the wit to turn it<br/>Down." "Will you stay tonight?" I ask. "Of course, but</p><p>Won't I be putting Miss Parkhill's nose out of joint<br/>If I do?" she asks. "I doubt it," I say. "I think you fascinate<br/>Her..." (I saw the same besotment on Delia Rawson<br/>That one time.) My mood lowers again and I stand</p><p>And go to my bedside table. "There are some things," <br/>I say hesitantly. "I'd like you to get rid of for me,<br/>If you would." I hand her the ring and the small Bible.<br/>She reads the inscription with a sneer. "Wretch."</p><p>"I'm glad I told you what I told you, but I feel so <br/>Humble and depressed in my estimation of myself."<br/>"Yes, well don't. You are blameless." She speaks<br/>With such conviction. What would I do without her?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. And Then I Thought We Might Exchange Rings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When I think of them while I'm watching her, it seems<br/>Extraordinary to me how different they are. Eliza and I<br/>Discovered ourselves when we discovered each other,<br/>And it should have grown past that, but society is unkind<br/>And, as I have learned repeatedly, we are not all equally<br/>Strong, in body or in mind. Mariana flared with passion,<br/>But feared the same constraints. She let me down, and I<br/>Cannot imagine her happy with Charles, but she will not<br/>Leave him, however many times I ask. Mrs. Barlow<br/>Taught me many things, things an Englishwoman in Paris<br/>Could only be taught by another English traveler:<br/>Anatomy, passion-dealing, tips and tricks for seduction.<br/>Vere was different. I fell in love with her mind, then,<br/>When I was well and truly hooked like a fish, she turned<br/>Those blazing eyes on me, and all I wanted after that<br/>Was to press myself against her, lay a trail of kisses<br/>Across those pristine shoulders, let my hand make its<br/>Petticoated way up her legs all the way to-- But no.<br/>She always pulled away. I could seduce her mind as hers<br/>Had long since seduced me, but her body stayed</p><p>Out of range. But Ann... Long ago I found her dull<br/>And stupid, but age and adversity had sharpened her<br/>Wits, loneliness had heated her fires. She is, as some<br/>Like to call me, extraordinary. So mere weeks later,<br/>Here I lay, on the left side of her bed, rolling toward her<br/>In the candlelit dimness. We are more open in the dark.<br/>I can say things like, "I've been thinking. Without a more<br/>Formal tie between us, this is just as wrong as any other<br/>Casual connection." And she, calmer in the darkness,<br/>Says, "But we said when we settled at Shibden, after all<br/>Our travels, that would be as good as a marriage..."<br/>"Yes, but I wondered if you would be willing to take<br/>The sacrament with me, and swear oaths, and exchange<br/>Rings..." "Like a wedding?" she breathed. "Yes!" Then,<br/>"In front of people?" "No! It would have to be a... private<br/>Understanding. But in all other respects, yes, very much."<br/>She looks away. "You'll get fed up with me..." I frown,<br/>A little tired of how little she seems to value herself<br/>When I value her so much. Does she think I have bad taste?<br/>"I don't when I'm with you," she explains. "With you<br/>I can take on the world." I don't know a word to say,<br/>So instead I kiss her, deeply, letting her feel my deep want.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Surveillance of My Correspondence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are times when one needs a friend, yes, of course.<br/>But more importantly, there are times when one needs<br/>Even more, a friend capable of dictating a well-worded<br/>Letter. Anne's facility with letters is one of the first things<br/>Ever I learned about her, and it has served me more<br/>Than once in my time of need. "I have given my friend,<br/>Miss Lister, surveillance--" (and of course she corrected<br/>My spelling, as I'm bad at words coming from French)<br/>"Surveillance of all my recent correspondence. Any<br/>Subsequent communication you choose to make with me<br/>Should be sent via her at Shibden Hall. Sincerely, <br/>A. Walker." Such a business-like sound that letter had.<br/>With any luck, it will send him into paroxysms of doubt.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. You've Heard of Her?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My wife is like a runaway Highflier when she has a bee<br/>In her bonnet. Now, for example, when Ann Walker<br/>Is clearly showing her disinterest in Reverend Ainsworth,<br/>She takes up his cause, offers to go to Crow Nest.</p><p>She tells him, as he must already know, how much loss<br/>Ann has experienced, but claims that means that she<br/>Does not know for herself what is good and needful.<br/>I'm not totally convinced of that, although it is true</p><p>That one person or another have taken advantage <br/>Of her. I think of her cousin Atkinson, but I have no<br/>Doubt that Eliza is thinking of Anne Lister. Still,<br/>It is curious that when our man comes in and says</p><p>That Anne Lister has come, and the fellow asks, <br/>"Is that Miss Lister of Shibden Hall?" he looks<br/>Suddenly ashen, as though the very name struck<br/>Fear in him. Eliza asks, "Why? You've heard of her?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. We Must Do What We Can</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The singular... person... who strode into the room<br/>Causing Mr. Priestley and me to jump to our feet--<br/>This is Miss Lister? This is a woman? They introduce<br/>Us and she says, looking me right in the eye, "You <br/>Must be heartbroken." But all I feel is uncertainty,</p><p>As in a drunken stupor when up and down seem<br/>Oddly sideways. She says she just came to ask<br/>A favor, then says, "Sorry, Mr. Ainsworth, this must<br/>Seem very banal to a man that's just lost his wife.<br/>We had a carriage accident here during the summer,</p><p>Not quite as tragic as your wife's, but a boy lost a leg.<br/>His father's one of my tenants. He'll never work<br/>On the farm, sadly, but my land steward's daughter<br/>Reads to Henry and he's quite bright." She turned<br/>Back to Mrs. Priestley and asked if she would have</p><p>The lad in her school, so that he could learn to read,<br/>Write, and account, and thereby make something<br/>Of himself. Then she said more, about the accident,<br/>About who caused it, who refused to take responsibility<br/>Despite being rich, and no one wanting to testify.</p><p>I could feel the room grow colder and my ears buzzed<br/>'Til all I could hear her say was she'd see herself out.<br/>We dropped into our chairs, but the moment I sat<br/>I realized that she knew, and I had to do something,<br/>Lest she make a very imprudent choice for all involved.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. If You Weren't So Insignificant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In my hurry to defend my poorly worded letter, I ran<br/>After the dark figure hurrying off, and as I began, she asked,<br/>"When are you leaving?" I told her when the interview was<br/>And my plan to leave the next morning. She told me<br/>It would be unwise of me to accept the position.</p><p>In my usual way, I convicted myself of mistakes: the wording<br/>Of my first letter to Miss Walker being overfamiliar, and<br/>Too quick off the mark, and I was under the influence<br/>Of opium, for my toothache and the loss of my wife. But<br/>Unlike my usual friends' habits of immediately absolving me</p><p>Of the sins I mentioned, she showed herself to have knowledge--<br/>Explicit knowledge--of what went before the letter. "And,<br/>Knowing the circumstances as I do," she said, "I hope<br/>You would understand the necessity of abstaining from<br/>Any further communication with her. Otherwise, you will</p><p>Be exposed. As an adulterer. And a fornicator." I tried<br/>To argue there were two sides. I tried to say the advances<br/>Were not unwanted. I tried to say she was complicit in it.<br/>I said she wanted it more than I did. But this hard-eyed...<br/>Woman, I suppose... merely stared at me, unblinking.</p><p>Then she looked me up and down, unimpressed, saying,<br/>"If you weren't so insignificant, I'd horsewhip you <br/>'Til you were black and blue." I tried to sneer. "If you expose<br/>Me, you'll expose her." "Mm. I hope you see the propriety<br/>Of us never hearing from you in this world ever again.</p><p>We have no reason to fear bumping into you in the next."<br/>I had always imagined God's angels looking sweet, innocent,<br/>Blonde and ringletted like Miss Walker. It had never occurred<br/>To me that the soldiers of the heavenly army might be dark<br/>Avengers, with a walking stick for a flaming sword...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Argus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's an art to keeping track of your pack<br/>In all the whirling activity of a place like this.<br/>Shibden wants looking after, and I make it<br/>My business to be in the middle of things.</p><p>Out in the courtyard, I can keep track of all<br/>The comings and goings, smelling where people<br/>And horses have been and who they've been with.<br/>This morning Miz Anne smells of floral perfume</p><p>And worry and satisfaction, like she was in a fight<br/>And won the right to piss on a tree first. Excellent.<br/>Miz Marian smells annoyed; that's no surprise.<br/>Everyone else smells the same as usual. Soon</p><p>It will be time for lunch. If I amble in--not too soon,<br/>Not too late--Miz Cordingly might give me a bite<br/>Of what doesn't get et from the table. She's a good<br/>One to have in yer pack is Miz Cordingly...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Ordering a Ring</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How many years has it been since I first imagined<br/>This: sitting down to write a formal letter to a jeweler<br/>In York, asking for a French onyx cabochon and rose-cut <br/>Diamond engagement ring from their display cabinet,<br/>For which I would enclose a banker's draft of thirty pounds.</p><p>Back then, thirty pounds would have been an unimaginable<br/>Sum, a pirate's treasure or a king's pocket change. Back then,<br/>I had no way to imagine I would ever inherit Shibden, or be<br/>In a position to collect my own rents, sink my own coal pit.<br/>Almost thirty years later, my dreams are coming true.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. But Surely That Isn't the Only Reason</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I am no more a busybody than anyone else I know<br/>But I am curious. The idea that anyone as old as<br/>My friend Miss Walker would think twice before<br/>Saying yes to a clergyman, especially at her <br/>Advanced age... it's just incredible. So I might have</p><p>Pushed, just a bit, for her reasons. I mean, "not in love"?<br/>That's such an Austen reason, and Miss Walker has<br/>Never struck me as an Elizabeth or an Emma. Surely<br/>She has some other reason... What if she were actually<br/>In love with someone else, secretly? But Crow Nest, now.</p><p>Crow Nest rarely sees gentleman callers. Since I have<br/>Been here, it has mostly been just me and Miss Lister.<br/>And then, of course, Mrs. Priestley, who called her<br/>An invalid, so of course she disappeared upstairs.<br/>And that... well, it seemed after that... Perhaps...</p><p>Perhaps Mrs. Priestley had really come to see me?<br/>Because she said such strange things once Ann had fled.<br/>About the two men hanged a while back, and <br/>Miss Lister also being "unnatural" and not because<br/>Of her scientific studies in Paris. Or not only that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Belt Buckle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I was slopping the pigs when I saw it, a shine,<br/>A small shining object, half buried in the muck.<br/>I went over the fence and picked it up, and<br/>Knowing hit me like a pig looking for food.</p><p>I stumbled, but got myself out of the sty,<br/>Breathing heavy from the knowing and the stink.<br/>But gradually, relief hit me harder than disgust<br/>And I went back in, set the buckle on the mantle.</p><p>I folded bed linens until Thomas returned.<br/>Then I showed it him, told him what he knew,<br/>What he'd heard Sam say a hundred times,<br/>About pigs, and what they'd eat, or who.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Torments of Conscience</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Just when I thought that I had sorted everything out<br/>To an acceptable level, if not to my full satisfaction,</p><p>A letter comes. Why is it always letters? How is it<br/>That inky letters on a folded page more often bring</p><p>Bad news rather than good? First that anonymous<br/>Drivel about me and other women. She faced that</p><p>Head on. Then... his... drivel, and her inability to show<br/>It to me, to tell me, until circumstances forced her hand.</p><p>And I sallied forth like a soldier, except that my weapon<br/>Was also a well-worded letter, and after that, well, words</p><p>And the suggestion of my walking stick taking the place<br/>Of a horsewhip. After that, I thought we were free</p><p>And clear: the clergyman cleared off, the coal seam<br/>Ready for bidding, the ring I have dreamed of ordering</p><p>Ordered. And now this letter from her, telling me<br/>Not to order it. Mm. Well. Too late. She says it is</p><p>Because of her torments of conscience. Well, what<br/>On Earth triggered that? Because in York, she had</p><p>No such torments. If there were torrents, they were<br/>Waves of passion, rocking her to her bone marrow.</p><p>Now this. She feels too weak to travel out of the kingdom<br/>At any point in the near future. And I do not know why.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Conscience Is Not Always Just</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Conscience may not always be just, but fidelity is.<br/>Where conscience may be too lenient or too severe,<br/>Fidelity never wavers from the middle way. Like a dog<br/>Who bites down on the robber's arm and holds steady,<br/>She affirms what she knows: the scent of the loved one,<br/>Familiar and commendable, and the scent of the aggressor,<br/>Rank and troubling. Where conscience may be lulled</p><p>To sleep or tossed in feverish recklessness, fidelity<br/>Is ever vigilant, standing guard over the beloved.<br/>We cannot judge ourselves, and I do not believe<br/>You deserve your "torments of conscience." At dawn,<br/>I will rise and hurry to Crow Nest, and we will,<br/>Together, talk over any plan to reestablish your health.<br/>Affectionately and very faithfully yours, Anne Lister.</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Not Much Appetite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In retrospect, I suppose it was obvious, or at least<br/>Obvious enough. The costume of hers, based, one assumes<br/>On a riding habit, inconspicuous enough. And her insistence</p><p>On speaking of anatomy, her disregard of the Biblical<br/>Description of creation, her taking up with heretical<br/>"Scientists" like Couvier and his ilk. She joins us here</p><p>At breakfast, still pink in the cheeks from her twenty-<br/>Minute walk from Shibden, which is easily thirty minutes<br/>Away-- I say I find I have not much appetite, and she</p><p>Sets down her teacup, says I do look peaky, suggests<br/>A walk, but advises me to wrap up because it is blowy--<br/>Then, when I rise, she rises, the way a man would.</p><p>How did I not see it? She is, in some bizarre way, a man<br/>In a woman's body and clothes, well, the clothes--<br/>But I leave and make my way to the other room to draw,</p><p>And pray I can find a way to salvage Ann's soul. If indeed<br/>What Mrs. Priestley says is true, she may need a host<br/>Of angels to protect her from the coming Armageddon.</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. What We Do</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>when she said she might take Ainsworth, my heart<br/>nearly stopped beating and I thought at first that perhaps<br/>the devil had been here himself, but she said he hadn't,<br/>so I asked, "What's been said?" and she described how,<br/>three months ago, two men were hanged outside a prison<br/>in York, in front of a crowd of thousands who jeered at them<br/>for doing... what we do... with each other... </p><p>and I asked who told her that, and she said Miss Parkhill,<br/>and I asked how Miss Parkhill knew what we did--<br/>and Ann said that she doesn't, but that people were<br/>starting to make assumptions--unless Ann told her, but<br/>she said she would rather die than people know what<br/>we do... she said people were making assumptions, <br/>and I asked, based on what? and she said Mrs. Priestly</p><p>had called and she had, ill-advisedly taken ill and left<br/>the two of them alone--and, now, she said all of the <br/>neighborhood would be making lewd comments...</p><p>But. We are friends. We are respectable women<br/>Who are friends, and if we continue to present ourselves, <br/>Unashamedly, as such, the whole thing will reflect badly <br/>Only on Mrs. Priestley. Have some courage, Ann!</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. If It Were to Become a Criminal Offense</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It always astonishes me how little she trusts her own<br/>Mind, instincts, heart, how much she leans on others<br/>To decide what she might think or feel. Now, somehow<br/>She has this idea from Mrs. Priestley, via Miss Parkhill,<br/>That what men do together, being illegal, might make<br/>What women like ourselves do-- And I tell her it is not.</p><p>But beyond legality is Nature, the nature God gave me<br/>And, as she has often implied, her as well. I say it again, <br/>And perhaps she'll hear me this time. "Have some courage,<br/>Ann. We haven't committed a criminal offense. We can't<br/>Be hanged for it. Yes, I am sure. However," I insist,<br/>"If it were a criminal offense, if it were to become one,</p><p>Well then, I would have to put my neck in the noose.<br/>Because I love, and only love, the fairer sex. My heart<br/>Revolts from any love but theirs. These feelings <br/>Haven't wavered or deviated since childhood. I act <br/>As my God-given nature dictates. If I were to lie <br/>With a man, surely that would be unnatural, surely</p><p>That would be against God, who made us, every one<br/>Of us in all of our richness and variety. You are the same.<br/>You told me you feel a repugnance towards forming<br/>A connection with the opposite sex..." Her distress<br/>Is palpable as she shushes me, so close to tears,<br/>As I am. I plead, "Don't let them poison you against me,</p><p>Against us. We can be happy. You know we can. We can<br/>Have a rich life together..." I try to smile although<br/>My face is wet, giving me away, but she just refuses<br/>To hear me. She asks, "What if I married him, only for<br/>Appearances...?" I stood up, unable to contain myself.<br/>"That would never do for me. Why should I compromise</p><p>Myself to lie with another man's wife? That would make me<br/>A liar, a cheat, a fornicator. That is not what I want. That is<br/>Why our present connection, without a more solemn tie,<br/>Is wrong. I want you to be my w-- my wife, and everything<br/>That means: to love and to cherish, to have and to hold,<br/>According to God's holy ordinance." That moment, it felt</p><p>Like suddenly, finally, I had broken through, I had reached<br/>Her understanding and she had seen my heart. She said, <br/>"Anne, I adore you. When I'm with you, the world makes<br/>Sense, but alone, all my thoughts, my family--" "You never<br/>Need to be alone. We can navigate the world together. And, <br/>With God's blessing, he will give us strength and courage."</p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Tail, Between Legs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the Priestley's man brought me my coat, I felt<br/>Inextinguishable relief. Part of me, since the meeting<br/>Outside the Priestley's house, had been waiting in terror<br/>For the avenging angel to appear to convict me of<br/>Fornication, adultery, being a man with an older wife.</p><p>I dreamed of her swooping in on the interview, and,<br/>Because of this I was jittery, giving half answers,<br/>Stuttering, asking them to repeat their questions.<br/>Even not in the room, I heard her rock-hard conviction<br/>That she and Ann would not worry about ever seeing</p><p>Me in the next world. That is just the sort of thing<br/>To make a confident man doubt himself, his calling,<br/>His fitness for the job on offer. And predators always<br/>Smell fear. They said, in the end, that they thought<br/>I was not a good fit. I agreed. And then I fled</p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. At the Bookshop, and Very Gay, Very Ladylike</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Having recently expanded my business from "A. Fell,<br/>Books, London" to also include "A. Fell, Books, York,"<br/>That morning when my assistant came to my back room<br/>Where I was appraising an antiquarian bible, to apprise<br/>Me of an important customer, I jumped up to greet her.</p><p>"Good morning, Miss Lister!" But she barely acknowledged<br/>My greeting, choosing instead to note what the two<br/>Well-dressed young ladies were perusing. "Mm," <br/>She said, "James's Life of Charlemagne. Yes, that's<br/>Very good. I've read that. Twice. It's excellent."</p><p>She left the two girls blushing and not knowing why.<br/>I've heard such things of her, that in addition to her<br/>Prodigious intellect, her God-given talents include<br/>Charm, the sort of dapper, swaggering charm a friend<br/>Calls seductivity, which can't even be an English word.</p><p>("No, of course not," he said when I mentioned it. <br/>"It's French.") "What can I do for you this morning,<br/>Miss Lister?" I asked. She said quietly, "I'm looking<br/>For a Book of Common Prayer, gilt-edged, bound<br/>In red Moroccan leather, if you have it, with</p><p>An attractively marbled flyleaf." I smiled. "I do<br/>Have one exactly like that, but at eight shillings..."<br/>"Good," she said, and I went back to get it, thinking<br/>The things I've heard of this woman include her<br/>Not being one for God or Church. Yet this book</p><p>Is not unusual for her. She always gets the latest<br/>Copy of Reverend XX's sermons, to read at her estate<br/>To her family and servants, in addition to the books<br/>She buys on geology, husbandry, forestry, and her studies<br/>In the classics. And if, while I'm looking for her book,</p><p>She sets down her top hat and gloves, and follows<br/>The nubile ladies out with her eyes on their<br/>Thoroughly fashionably padded derrieres, well, <br/>As my friend would say, "All's fair in love, war, and <br/>The presentation of an appropriate piece of fruit."</p>
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<a name="section0025"><h2>25. She Inscribed It for Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The beautiful prayerbook that she gave me, inscribed,<br/>As it was, with a statement of such poetic faith, <br/>That no rood, no cross, could ever bend so low that it<br/>Could not be raised by our Lord, which must give us<br/>Faith--it reminded me of what she had written to me<br/>About the difference between conscience and fidelity,</p><p>And made me ask her what she'd done with the Bible<br/>And ring I'd given her, which he'd given me. "They're safe,"<br/>She said, though the big smile she'd been wearing faltered<br/>Momentarily. "Do you like it?" I answered, "It's exquisite,<br/>Thank you." She got quite serious then. "When you told me<br/>About... what he did... it gave me a responsibility, and a power</p><p>Over you, that I intend to use wisely and in very much<br/>In your best interests. I'll never let you down. Time<br/>Is a great thing. I don't believe your misgivings about him<br/>Will last longer than a season. Meanwhile, we'll redouble<br/>Our efforts to agreeabilize with Miss Parkhill. I can't<br/>Go home. Marian's got Mr. Abbott round for tea..."</p>
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<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Knocking Down Shibden</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is easy for a man like myself to make a good<br/>Impression even on a landed family. The very spark<br/>Of genius that has enabled me to do well for myself<br/>In trade is precisely that which will make them <br/>Admire my sagacity and good sense. "Ah, yes,"</p><p>I say, "With these old piles, the best thing you can do<br/>Is knock it down and start again, because the land<br/>Is perfectly good and in a desirable enough place.<br/>Not that you should. It's over four hundred years old.<br/>It's a relic." Her aunt seems... frosty, as Marian says,</p><p>"Have more fruitcake, Mr. Abbott." I take it, saying,<br/>"Some find that sort of thing interesting, but,<br/>Miss Lister, you're elderly, if you haven't noticed.<br/>Winter must be very cold for you, and you must be<br/>A martyr to rheumatism..." "I have lived here all</p><p>My life, Mr. Abbott. I have never once--" But Marian<br/>Interrupts. "You've got ulcers. She's got ulcers.<br/>On her leg." At the aunt's icy look, I back up.<br/>"You're hardy. But look at the new technology.<br/>Some of these new houses have under-floor </p><p>Heating!" "Oh," says Captain Lister. "You mean,<br/>Like the Romans used to have?... Tell us about<br/>New Zealand, and Australia." "What?" I ask.<br/>Marian says, I told them you have property there."<br/>"Yes, but I haven't been. Such a long journey!</p><p>Not for me. Too bad I couldn't meet your sister.<br/>You hear so many stories about her. Of course,<br/>I take them with a pinch of salt. I get along with <br/>Absolutely anybody!" Oddly, I spend the rest<br/>Of the dinner cleaning up on the fruitcake.</p>
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<a name="section0027"><h2>27. The Big Dogs Start Biting</h2></a>
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    <p>My little brother hasn't got the balls God gave Welly.<br/>Always nattering about Her and what She's going to find<br/>Out about what we've, he's, done. He wants to give in,<br/>To give her the ridiculous price she's asking for <br/>Her coals. He's a coward, but I'll not let her let him<br/>Bring me down too. No. And I'm not paying her<br/>Fucking silly prices. Does she think we're stupid?<br/>"No," he says. "She thinks we're stealing her coal.<br/>She knows it. And she wants paying for it. You <br/>Have to accept that we have no choice, not if we want<br/>Not to get found out, and not have legal action taken<br/>Against us. Yes, it would be expensive to sink her own<br/>Pit, but Mother's right about Miss Walker." So why,<br/>I ask, is anyone letting her hand in Ann Walker's...<br/>Anything, for God's sake? If she wants to run with<br/>The big dogs, she's going to have to find out<br/>What it's like when they really start biting.</p>
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<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Come and Thrash Me Like You Usually Do</h2></a>
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    <p>My energetic state is stifled here, between one woman<br/>Who has been told I am the devil incarnate, and the other<br/>Who--I'd thought--knew exactly who and what I was,<br/>And rather liked it. But now I am unsure: I, for whom<br/>Certainty is the backbone of who I am and have always been.<br/>The sitting room rings with uneasy silence, one not wanting</p><p>To hear me, the other not wanting to speak. How can I wring <br/>Them out of this space? A walk, even a short one, goes against <br/>Medical advice; what doctor would advise against fresh air? <br/>So I suggest backgammon. "Come, Miss Walker. Thrash me<br/>Like you usually do!" I set up the board. Ann comes over, but <br/>Miss Parkhill is evidently fed up with me. She says, "You </p><p>Don't have to be here, Miss Lister, if you're bored. I was asked <br/>By Miss Walker's aunt to keep her company while she was <br/>Under the weather. To be candid, there barely seems any point<br/>In me being here when you're here so often." I say,<br/>"The more, the merrier, surely. We were all getting along <br/>So nicely before. Let's have another go at your past perfect."</p><p>And I picked up her grammar book, but she clamped<br/>Her hand on mine, sneering, "Two's company." I leaned<br/>Down on the book, taking a breath, then I said, "Well, <br/>Miss Parkhill, if that's how you feel, maybe you should<br/>Go home." She gathered up her portfolio and wrap,<br/>Archly announcing, "I'll be in the other room," and left us.</p>
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<a name="section0029"><h2>29. I’d Rather Starve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As the door closes behind the girl, I think Mrs. Priestly<br/>Should never have used her like that, putting her in <br/>The position of a pawn. It’s not Miss Parkhill’s fault.<br/>I turn, saying, "Let me apologize. Come on, we can sort <br/>This out--" I know I can agreeabilize with anybody.<br/>But her voice changes. "I can't do this, Anne. It's become<br/>Impossible. I shall have to take him, or I shall have no<br/>Peace, either from my relations or here in my head. <br/>You should go. I can't do this anymore. It's wrong!" </p><p>And I insist, "It's perfectly natural." She won't hear me. <br/>"No! It’s not! It's against God! It's repugnant and queer!"<br/>That sends me rocking back on my heels, but I stay<br/>Calm, keep my voice steady, saying, "You do understand,<br/>It does occur to you, presumably, hopefully, occasionally,<br/>That I have feelings too, when you say something like that?<br/>Mm? You agreed to swear oaths on the Bible. You agreed<br/>To take the sacrament with me. How on Earth can you talk<br/>About taking Mr. Ainsworth, who hurt you, after all that?" </p><p>"I'll still lend you the money to sink your pit..." she offers,<br/>As if to mollify me. I stare, appalled, stricken. "How dare you? <br/>What do you think I am? Do you seriously imagine I'd take it?<br/>If you were my wife, yes. If you were someone else's, no, never. <br/>I'd rather starve. And I would never exploit you like your idiotic <br/>Relations. I'm going home. You understand nothing about me. <br/>I thought you did, but you don't. Absolutely nothing!" Then<br/>I slammed out, so angry, I could barely see clear to put on <br/>My coat and hat, veer left, like a chess knight, and head home.</p>
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<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Crypt-hand, Stiff and Aching</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>&lt;She neither deserves nor understands what I've done</em>
</p><p><em>for her in getting rid of this fellow, this wretch,&gt; </em>I thought</p><p>To myself as I strode home.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>&lt;I ought not to care. I ought to let her take him and </em>
</p><p><em>have done with it. She's too insipd,&gt;</em> I argued to myself</p><p>On the Lightcliffe Road.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>&lt;and nervous and poorly for me, surely. And what would I do</em>
</p><p><em>with her abroad?&gt;</em> I asked myself.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>&lt;Even if I could get her there, I'd only have trouble with her,</em>
</p><p><em>and for what?&gt;</em> I demanded.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>&lt;If she had any real feelings for me, she wouldn't carry on</em>
</p><p><em>like this. Surely,&gt;</em> I thought, <em>&lt;when the no-account stepped</em></p><p>
  <em>out of the shadows and brandished his stick--&gt;</em>
</p>
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<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Thug</h2></a>
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    <p>Dressed as much like a man as me, except in skirts,<br/>Th'unnatural thing strode toward me in all her <br/>Vainglory, muttering to herself, but I stopped her in her<br/>Tracks, I did, simply by saying, "Goin' home?"<br/>She didn't have her stick, but I had mine and her eyes<br/>Locked on it right quick when she caught me tone.</p><p>"What the hell are you doing--" she started to ask,<br/>But I caught her crost the jaw with me stick, knocking<br/>Her to the ground. Her hat came oft and I repeated,<br/>"I asked you if you're goin' home?" I pushed her up<br/>Against the stone wall and reached for her queer,<br/>Growling, "Some people think it's time you went home</p><p>And stayed there. Keep still." I reached again but she<br/>Got a hand on my stick at her throat and with my other<br/>Hand busy southwards, she managed to push the stick<br/>Away with one hand and punch me in jaw wift t'other.<br/>When I stumbled back, she pitched me stick off t'hill<br/>And punched me again in jaw, while I punched her</p><p>In t'stomach. Punch fer punch. I wa'n't told she were<br/>So strong, so I backed off, spat in her face and gave her<br/>The warning. "Leave Miss Walker alone." And then,<br/>Keeping me dignity intact, I barreled off. She'd be all<br/>Afright, I knew. I'd earned my pounds (and more scars<br/>On me face, but long's no one knew their source, all good).</p>
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<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Behind My Back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*Gives O'Hoolley &amp; Tiddow the bro nod*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I know what they call me behind my back.<br/>As I spit out blood, pick up my hat, I think of<br/>All the names: Jack-the-lass, Gentleman Jack,<br/>Fella in a frock. Not wildly creative but</p><p>Hurtful nonetheless, just like this thug<br/>Trying to warn me away from Miss Walker<br/>But I will remember his ugly mug<br/>And find out his name, who sent him.</p><p>Already my eye is swelling as I stumble<br/>Along the road home. This time I won’t<br/>Make it in twenty-five minutes. Humbled,<br/>I forgot to check the time before I left</p><p>Crow Nest. Thus it ends: two Yorkshire ladies<br/>Who might have settled down together,<br/>At shabby little Shibden, happily and gayly<br/>Now will reside apart and alone,</p><p>All my planning and seducing, ever so fine,<br/>Undone. Well, that has happened before.<br/>But it won’t stop me. I won't toe the line.<br/>I’ll keep looking for a woman to be my wife.</p><p>And the thug, warning me off, speaking her name?<br/>That’s not coincidence. I’ve made some enemies.<br/>Most ladies love me, but gentlemen frown<br/>When I beat them at negotiations or cards,</p><p>And someday, I’ll beat them at their own<br/>Game, winning a lifetime of love with a woman<br/>It’s just a matter of cracking the code.<br/>For now, I’ll stumble home and watch my back.</p>
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